


Inevitability

by Cloudnine101



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Attack, Blood, Forgiveness, M/M, POV Second Person, Romance, Teenlock, Uncertainty, dark themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2018-03-01 15:55:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2779010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cloudnine101/pseuds/Cloudnine101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'You never thought you'd be faced with this; and yet, you are.'<br/>·<br/>John has always been left to deal with Sherlock's consequences - this time is no exception.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inevitability

You never thought you'd be faced with this; and yet, you are.

He's standing in front of you, drenched, soaked to the bone, dripping.

There's blood on his hands - coating them, up to his wrists.

(You don't want to think where it came from.)

"Help me," he says, voice breaking. "Please, help me."

(His eyes are dark - the coat clings to his hips.

For a second, he's the same as he always was.)

And, because you're a good person, you do.

You wash off his hands, watching as the red spirals into the sink.

He's shaking, but you try not to think about that.

(You try not to think about anything.)

"John-" he says, but you cut him off.

"Where did it come from, Sherlock?"

He doesn't reply.

You half-lift, half-drag him up the stairs.

He leans heavily on you.

(You try to ignore the thrill that comes with it.)

He collapses onto your bed, eyes flickering shut. You go downstairs, and sit on the couch, doing nothing.

Ten minutes later, you down two glasses of red wine, and scrub out the sink.

(The foul taste remains in your mouth.)

He's lying on the bed, and you're bending over him, hot and flushed and burning.

His eyes are open, and he's smiling, ever so slightly.

"Thank you."

"I forgive you."

(But you don't - not really, because that implies there's anything you can forgive.)

The next morning, he's gone, and you're left with an ache (and an empty bottle of bleach) where your heart should be.

There's a boy in hospital, with a scar on his chest; and he's saying he doesn't know who did it, doesn't know anything.

(You've never hated Anderson more in your entire life.)

No, you don't know who did it.

(But you do.)

No, you don't know anything.

(But you do.)

And then you go home, and he's there, waiting.

"Is he-"

"He's fine. No thanks to you."

He slumps against the stairwell, breath gone.

"It's all my fault."

(It is.)

You brush past him, and walk up the stairs.

You watch him walk away, out onto the street.

He looks back, once.

You close the curtains.

The next morning, the note arrives.

I'm sorry.

(I forgive you.)

"I forgive you."

He's leaning against the wall, waiting.

"Why did you do it?"

"I didn't mean to."

"Why?"

He doesn't have an answer.

You walk together, down into London.

Your shoulders rub.

It's enough.

(It isn't.)

He pushes you against the wall, and you kiss him-

And-

And-

And for a moment, it's all heat and intensity and-

And-

And-

And then he's gone.

"I forgive you."

Because it was always going to happen, one day.

It was inevitable.

(You don't forgive...but one day, you might.)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, you beautiful people! Please review!


End file.
